The Nations' Illnesses
by IntraSule
Summary: After having an interesting blog/role-playing conversation with an author, I was inspired to write this sort of compilation of short stories on the disorders our lovable nations might have based on their personalities and their actions. More situational than informational.
1. America-Food Addiction

Dislcaimer: Hetalia and its characters are not mine. If they were, then the FrUk vs. UsUk debated would've ended a while ago, with UsUk victorious. /shot by angered FrUk fan girl/boy

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Chewing happily on a large bite of a Big Mac and a mouthful of fries, America sat in the back of the McDonald's restaurant, savoring the relative peace and privacy of the isolated area as well as the saltiness of the fries that complimented the juicy deliciousness of the cheeseburger. It was his third burger and second order of large fries in six minutes, and he had meant to just use McDonald's as a workplace to finish his paperwork (he hated working in his own office; it was just too forcefully reclusive, unlike the fast food chain) but he was already starting to unwind and let the quietness of the restaurant calm his nerves.

Although he didn't seem like the type of man to like quiet areas, America really did enjoy the occasional solitude as long as it wasn't forced or anything. It was definitely a godsend after a stressful day at the world meeting or the meeting with the boss, both of them seeming pointless and unfruitful to America. Really, all the boss ever did in those private meetings was grind his balls about not having the report on the nation's educational system in on time, and calling him a mindless glutton who can't focus two seconds without thinking about food. The other countries tend to just split up and go crazy, having side arguments, forming secret alliances, napping (mostly Greece) tussling with each other, and all sorts of insanity that sent the conference room into a disorderly frenzy.

America sighed in content after finishing his Big Mac and fries, crumpling the cartons they came in and placing them far away on the table from the files he brought with him. He wiped his greasy fingers on a napkin and sucked in some of his milkshake before opening the file folder the paperwork came in. His eyes skimmed the first page for a few moments before they wandered involuntarily to the pile of burgers and cartons of fries. At that instant, a voice sounded in his head:

"_America, you fat Dumkopft!" _Germany's voice barked. _"With the way you're eating, you're going to send yourself into an early grave and your citizens into a national extinction! I swear, if I had known that you Americans would get addicted to this, I would've never allowed my people to make it!"_

America reached for another burger, slowly pulling back the carton's top. He looked at the burger with disgust.

"_Wow, America, another one?" _China scoffed as he walked by and noticed America with another burger. _"Isn't your ass fat enough without shoving that grotesque excuse for food down your diabetic throat?"_

America brought the warm burger to his mouth and took a large bite out of it, coupling it with a few French fries.

"_Wow, mon chubby pal, it's no wonder your head is so big; it needs to be proportional to that unflattering waistline of yours!" _France chuckled snidely behind his rose.

America felt his eyebrows scrunch together in concentration as he crushed the beef, cheese, tomatoes, and lettuce into an edible mulch before swallowing it. He quickly followed with another bite and more fries.

"_America-san, it isn't right to simply sit around all day and shovel down so much food! And at one sitting, too! It makes me ashamed that my army of long ago lost to someone like this!"_

America wolfed down a handful of fries and tersely wiped his lips with another napkin, pretending to not notice the stares coming his way from other patrons, many of them looking his way with obvious disgust. He closed his eyes and tuned out the heavy silence to focus as much of his senses and concentration on the delicious fries in his mouth. He chomped on the burger greedily.

"_America, you flabby git," _England sighed. _"I can't believe I raised such an unrefined, uncontrollable swine…"_

America choked on the burger, coughing and hacking to bring it back up from his windpipe. He took out another napkin and brought it to his face to make it seem like he was using it to wipe his mouth and spit the burger in it so that the patrons watching wouldn't know that he was wiping away tears. After the burger went down his throat roughly and the milkshake's coolness soothed the soreness afterwards, America sat back in his bench tiredly, hanging his head back and laying his arm across his eyes. He didn't feel like writing reports at that time. He didn't feel like finishing up the fries before they got cold. He didn't want to look at that disgusting pile of garbage in front of him.

He felt a tap on his arm and peeked from underneath it to find a McDonald's worker looking down on him with such concerned eyes.

"Hey, dude, you okay?" The worker asked, leaning on his broom.

"Heh, yeah, I'm cool," America said as he brought his arm away from his eyes.

"Good. Hey, you should slow down on the eating, man," the worker chuckled . "That stuff ain't going anywhere."

"Heh heh, yeah," America feigned a chuckled as the worker went back to sweeping the tiles. He looked at the pile of burgers and fries sitting in front of him and reached for another burger…


	2. Poland- Shopping Addiction

Okay, so this chapter briefly goes into WW2, the war to end Nazism and its cruel acts upon the Jewish and Gypsy nations. If you are sensitive to that bit of history, then please for your own sake, don't read it…

Hetalia's not mine, still…

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"Oh, man, Leit! Check out all of these totally cool outfits! I will, like, be so fucking hot in this shirt and these jeans!"

Lithuania smiled gently and feigned interest as he watched his friend, Poland, look at himself in the mirror, holding up a sky blue dress shirt to his torso and a pair of rhinestone skinny jeans to his legs. Poland was checking himself out at every angle, excitedly posing as a model even though he didn't even try on the clothes yet.

It was Lithuania's break today, and as much as he would love to be able to just relax in Poland's study- the study Poland barely used himself- and drink his special chamomile tea while watching his soap operas, he begrudgingly complied with Poland's demand to attend the mall with him for a shopping day. It wasn't just because Lithuania and Poland had a sort of slave-master companionship going- where Lithuania played the quiet follower and Poland played the rambunctious leader- it was because Lithuania became the household's self-appointed finance keeper. He had to take the position when he finally realized that Poland needed one while he was folding and putting away the fiftieth pair of jeans Poland bought that one week.

As he towed along the shopping basket nearly overflowing with expensive jeans alongside Poland, Lithuania couldn't help but worry about Poland's problem. With Poland being the only one with a job in the household and Lithuania forced to play his housewife ( that is to say, his house servant) because Poland needed a cook and a cleaner, the household's income was very limited, and even with Poland's boss giving him some of the necessities and appliances on behalf of the government, it still took a lot of money to care for the countries that were residing in Poland's house, the money that Poland was continuously blowing away on shopping spree after shopping spree. It genuinely scared Lithuania more than anything, not only because he feared that Poland was going to lose his house and he was going to starve to death with no money to supply himself, but also because he saw that Poland was buying all of this unnecessary items- _expensive_, unnecessary items- to make himself feel expensive- like he's worth something…

"Oh! Lithuania! Check this dope shit out!" Poland squealed with delight as he brandished a pair of black high-top sneakers with fabric yellow stars stitched to their sides. Stars…

The stars reminded Lithuania of World War Two, of the unbelievable genocide and humiliation Germany's late-boss Adolf Hitler forced on the Jewish nation. The yellow stars on the sneakers were like the stars of David on the Jewish people's jackets and shirts, one of the horrid acts of "punishment" Hitler and his Nazis forced not only on the Jews, but the Poles as well. Poland, with his past neo-Nazi tendencies, thought that he and Germany could share in hurting and "cleansing the world of" the Jews, but was sorely disappointed when Hitler turned his army lose on the Polish nation, and when Germany himself beaten Poland to near-death for being a pompous asshole.

Thinking back on it, on seeing the look of emotional pain and sense of worthlessness behind those fatal bruises and wounds, Lithuania believed that World War II was when Poland began to love the shopping. It made sense, seeing as how after a week past since Germany nearly killed Poland, Poland took it upon himself to roam the street markets of his village, rummaging through and buying one pretty, shiny item after another to fill his closet and dresser with. Maybe he was obsessed with shiny stuff too; Lithuania also noticed that Poland didn't buy any clothes in cool, dark colors or lifeless, non-sparkly jewelry, because the happy brightness of light-colored clothes and the shine of gold, silver, and gems pushed away those dark memories.

The problem wasn't exactly serious until that battle Poland had with Russia, the one where Russia defeated Poland and took away Poland's one true friend that tolerated his wrongful ways…

When Russia was kind enough to let Lithuania visit Poland, Lithuania noticed how the piles of shopping bags grew larger and larger, all the receipts came less from grocery stores and more from clothing stores, and how every time Poland showed Lithuania his new outfit, he would always ask, "See how awesome this is? It looks way better than that stupid uniform I fought Russia in, am I right?"

It was becoming troublesome. Weekly- sometimes daily- Poland's funds would dwell upon the "red zone"- the area that indicated that Poland was in extreme danger of losing everything he had and putting his entire nation's economy in jeopardy. It was a miracle that Poland was able to be so financially stable for so long. Lithuania had to speak up, to get Poland to realize his mental disorder was destroying him; he had to show Poland that he had a shopping problem.

"U-um, Poland?" Lithuania spoke up meekly. Oh, how he wished that he sounded as brave and assertive in real life as he did in his head.

"Yeah, What?" Poland asked as he studied the rack of hot pink berets.

"U-um, uh, er…We need…we need to talk…"

"Yeah, about what?" Poland casually tossed two of the berets into the basket and led them to the ties.

"We," Lithuania gulped and forced his tone to be more serious. "We need to talk about your shopping sprees, dammit!" He mentally cursed himself for unnecessarily swearing.

"Ugh! That bull shit again?" Poland groaned. "Can't we save that convo for later? Besides, I don't have an addiction, you Lithuanian fool; I'm not injecting the clothes into my blood veins with a needle, am I? I'm not snorting hats and shoes into my nose, right? So why do you keep getting your panties into a knot?"

"Poland, you keep saying that we'll talk about this later, but later never seems to come! And people don't have to have problems with drugs in order for it to be an addiction! I keep 'getting my panties in a bunch' because it's destroying you and you can't see that-"

"_Lithuania_…!" Poland snarled quietly, gripping one of the ties he picked out. Lithuania took that as a warning to stop and immediately dropped the topic, sighing as he watched Poland angrily yank off the rack a tie of every bright color and throw them into the basket. He'll just have to settle for finding ways to secretly sell off some of his stuff to keep money in the house...

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As you can see, I have some inaccurate information in this chapter. I'm not much of a history buff, so I tried to be as correct as possible. I hoped you liked this one.


	3. France- Sex Addiction

Well, after a long spiritual journey of self-awakening (meaning: a long, dull, lazy week) I've come to the realization that I am absolutely, positively, without a doubt terrible at updating my stories. I mean, I absolutely suck so much that I wonder to myself why to I even bother writing multiple chapter fics? ;n; Well, here goes another chapter! :D (Oh, and there's an implication of rape, so…)

Hetalia is't mine. If it were, then I would've been able to teach France how to Tweet properly *referring to when France sending out his canary Pierre.*

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As the sun poured its warmth through the hotel drapes, France stirred in the deluxe king-sized bed, the sun's rays tickling his senses to the point of making his eyelids flutter open. He bellowed a deep, tired yawn before turning onto his side and scooting his body closer to the curvy form occupying the bed with him.

France didn't know her name, and because of the way he was downing glass after glass of wine the night before, he couldn't remember having a clear image of her face, either. But he can remember that she was one of the bartenders trying to stop him from drinking himself to his grave, and that she had that sweet heart-shaped face. France can also remember that she had really soft hands from the way she was clawing at his back and a beautiful British accent from the way she was calling out his human name in pure orgasmic ecstasy. He sniffed at her tussled hair and took in the musk of strawberry and sex-induced sweat; there was just something about intercourse that heightened the body's senses in the morning after and makes the lovers appreciate life more!

He propped himself on an elbow and gently tugged at the bartender's shoulder, turning her so he can see her face. She was gorgeous: her lips were pink and pouting even in sleep, her cheeks were kissed with just a hint of rosy hue, and when her own eyes opened slightly before they closed again to allow her more sleep, he was able to see they were shiny green-colored jewels, still cloudy from the magic of the night before. Only when he made a move to brush her bangs from her forehead did France notice the eyebrows. They were thick and slightly darker than her hair, but they were shapely in a beautiful well-kept trim, not unkempt and unsightly bushy like England's…

France's shoulders stiffened when that man came into mind. Much to France's chagrin, his mind wandered to that day when England stopped him to give him another infamous dull British lecture.

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France was cleaning up his space at the conference table, tapping a stack of paper on the table to put them into a neat pile and finishing the last of his honey croissant when England stepped up behind him and cleared his throat to get France's attention. As annoying as England was, France still turned to him and gave him his attention.

_"What is it that you want, Angleterre?"_ France asked him.

_"Nothing really, just…"_ England trailed off, looking away and nervously rubbing the back of his neck. France cocked an eyebrow at him; if what he wanted to say to France was making him this nervous, than it must be pretty bad. England looked back up at him and stuffed his hands in his pockets. _"I just want to talk to you…"_

Both of France's eyebrows went up. _"Really?"_ He asked incredulously. _"About what, exactly?"_

England sighed softly. _"It's nothing really, I just-"_

_"Well, goodbye, then!"_ France chimed as he tucked the papers under his arm and quickly maneuvered around England, nearly sprinting towards the doors.

_"Wait, you bloody asshat!"_ England shouted as he grabbed the crook of France's arm and pulled him back. He stepped aside as France nearly tumbled back into him, almost falling to the floor with his stack of papers before catching himself and gaining his footing. When he saw that France wasn't hurt and was instead shooting death glares at him, he continued calmly, _"I wanted to talk to you about your- er- problem…"_

_"Problem? What problem? I don't have a problem…"_

_"I knew this wasn't going to be easy,"_ he muttered to himself. He looked into France's eyes. _"France, you…you do have a problem. You have an addiction to sex and as much as I hate your furry, flabby, pasty, flat ass, I just-"_ he cleared his throat again. _"I just can't help but, uh, worry about you…"_

_"U-uh, um, what?"_ France half-laughed, his eyes wide with surprise and his mouth turned up in a bemused grin.

_"I _said_ that I'm worried about you, France. I mean, you've gotten completely sick with lust. Yes, I know you were the world's pervert since the day you learned what the penis can do- and probably even before that- but now, we all see that it's worse than before. Heck, it's not even your sick way of 'spreading the French love' anymore!"_ England clearly felt that he was on a roll, because his voice became stronger and more earnest. _"Now, it just seems like you're having sex more so than you would eat, drink, or sleep! It's like sex is a first priority to you, and nothing else!"_

France erupted into a fit of laughter, earning him a piercing glare from England. When his laughter died down enough, he clapped a hand on England's shoulder and wiped tears forming at the corner of his eyes._ "Oh, my, England! I never knew you held such concern for me! That's so- pfft!- sweet!"_ He sighed in content. _"But you have no reason to worry about me, because I don't have an addiction, okay? I am just like any other man with a healthy libido, except they can't keep up with me, such as yourself!"_ He said that last bit with a wink and tried to walk away.

_"No, you frog! It's isn't healthy,"_ England spat, making France stop in his tracks and groan in an annoyed tone. _"You and I both know that your mind is sick with this and it's going to destroy you! At the rate you're just sticking your damn self into any woman willing to lay in bed with you, you're going to get an STD or an STI, if you haven't done so, already! And then what? You're still going to deflower woman after woman and spread that shit to them?! That's what a sex-crazed mutt would do! A person who's addicted would do such a thing without thinking of the consequences!"_

_"And what the hell makes you think that I can't control my urges, huh? I'm not addicted to sex, because if I were, than I wouldn't be able to stop myself, and you know it!"_

England's eyes widen with disgusted shock before they set into a death glare, glistening with tears. "You can _stop yourself?" _He scoffed indignantly._ "You honestly believe that you can stop yourself without any sort of help, without any rehabilitation?! So, I guess that that one time when you literally tossed me on that forest ground centuries ago and shredded my robes and held me down to-!" _England choked on his words, his shoulders shaking with hidden sobs and his cheeks soaked with tears. He sniffed and dried his cheeks and eyes with his suit's sleeve before finishing_, "France, you…you are completely obsessed with sex! Top denying it and get help!"_

France gaped with his own feelings of indignation._ "I don't have an addiction, dammit! And how many times are you going to bring that up? I apologized time and time again and I thought you had let go of it, already! Will you stop-?!" _France's rant was interrupted by a sting across his cheek. His head snapped to the side.

England's hand was poised in a stiff position, tingling after making a brutal contact with France's face. There were fresh tears dripping from his green gem eyes, which made them shine even more. In a low voice, he hissed_, "If it wasn't for the millions of innocent citizens you have, I would tell you to just fuck every person that you meet so that you get a disease and die, and to take your obsession with you to your grave."_

France gently touched the reddening cheek, his face stunned before it was angry. He stepped away from England and left the room, forgetting the paper scattered on the floor as he fumed. That damn Brit! How dare he claim that he had a problem, an obsession, as if he was one to talk?! He was so obsessed with America that he practically dotes on him and stalks him, and he can't even see that America doesn't want to have anything to do with that British bastard; it's like the whole Revolutionary War hasn't even happen! He's wasting time and precious love on America when France could be getting that love and appreciating it properly! He could show Britain better love if given the chance! He would've shown England what he could do. He could've shown England what he was missing out on! France felt the front of his pants become tighter as it brushed against his throbbing member. There was no one else in the room, so he should've-

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France stopped himself before the memory took over. He looked down at the sleeping beauty as she stirred in her dream and lied back down with her. He slid the sheet down her porcelain shoulder and kissed it gently before nestling his face in the crook of her neck, cushioned by her silky golden hair. He smiled sadly to himself.

Silly Angleterre didn't know what the French love was…


	4. Canada- Selective Mutism

Yay, I finally stopped being lazy enough to write this chapter! :D (Now, if only I can get the same energetic, motivational boost to complete my assignments...)

Hetalia ain't mine, so I won't get money or fame for this…

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As usual, the world conference was in total disarray. One would think that with a meeting of the nations, there have to be actions of complete importance and urgency done within the conference room's walls. What else could be important enough to pull Spain from his tomato garden, Germany from his morning training with Italy, Lietchenstein from her sewing, or Ghana from her soccer games? Surely it could be something like finding cultural unity and restoring humanity so that civilization wouldn't fall? Unfortunately, it is not.

Instead, the dreaded world conference started and dragged on in its predictable pattern: nations erupting in arguments about asinine views like America's burgers versus Italy's pasta or Poland's "kickass" cashmere sweater versus France's "magnifique" silk blouse, nations trying to beat the crap out of each other like Turkey and Greece, or nations trying to take over other nations like Belarus trying to get Russia or Russia trying to get control over the entire world. Nothing argued had any important substance to it that can challenge one's intellect. If one thought about it, there shouldn't be any arguments at all; the nations should be coming together to create solutions to global issues such as the deathly increases of worldly temperatures, horrid genocide, children's starvation, and much more. Yet here they were, faces red with frustration, voices hoarse from yelling, knuckles bruised and bloodied from physical fighting, and Russia cowering from his little sister. Only two nations had enough discretion to remember the purpose of these meetings, and one of them was constantly distracted by the need to protect his smaller, weaker companion from "bullies". That left one nation to mull over what's going on around him.

That nation was Canada, who was sitting at the farthest seat of the table, away from the silly commotion so that he can have enough peace to actually hear his own thoughts. With one hand balancing Kumajirou on his lap and another busily writing quick, neat notes in his idea notebook, Canada was taking quick glances up from his personal pages and shaking his head in frustration and embarrassment. Although he wasn't a man of great confidence and formality, he still found it foolish that the nations would waste precious time and resources acting like centuries-old children and tarnishing their statuses as countries. He rubbed soothing circles in his temple as he imagined a meeting where everyone didn't banter like immature brats, where England didn't try to shove his diarrhea-inducing food down people's throats, where France didn't try to woo every female nation and pretty male nation to get into their pants, where everyone can concentrate long enough to let him share his ideas and solutions. Where everyone didn't deny his existence to the point that he was almost physically transparent. Where his voice would stop failing him long enough so that he could speak up and make himself known, especially for something important like this.

Canada continued listing his ideas in his notebook to distract himself from the situation at hand, but it wasn't working out so well. He can already feel his mind being pulled back into the chaotic scene while he scribbled down a couple of ways to resolve wars in Third World civilizations, a habit that he formed since it was proper etiquette to pay attention in meetings. It was the only thing Canada could do because he could never say anything, really; every time he tried, his voice would just shut down. He didn't know why it would do that so many times considering the fact that his throat wasn't injured or infected; he was even able to talk really well when he was switching between French and English without stumbling on his words. So why was it so difficult for him now? Why was it that whenever Canada had something important to say, he can barely get two words pass his lips, if he was lucky to even get that much say in anything? The urge was there, and it burned like crazy, yet it wasn't a strong enough catalyst to get him to talk.

He glanced up from his notebook again just in time to see England use Norway's technique and choke France with his own tie while America was trying to stop him and it all just came flooding back to him. All those times where he was made insignificant, where his country was basically used as nothing more than a trading route which somehow depleted the number of his original people and depleted his original culture, like America's old situation except it seemed that America was more wanted and fought over than he was, like France and England were willing to put more time, energy, attention, and military resources in order to win America while he himself was just some additional piece to the "big prize". That could've been the time to prove his worth, to prove that he could be just as good as America .

Granted, maybe that would've a bad idea because no nation should want to be fought over in wars and have his or her original way of life completely changed for the worse (if the nation was unlucky enough), but back then, Canada was a young child who wanted to be seen as worthy, and he was able to see how all of those wars America witnessed and lived through changed him into someone loud, someone boisterous, someone bold, someone _heroic, _someone_ Canada _wanted to be. Even worse, when a war over Canada's land did come, he had no say whatsoever in his dependency status, just like he was immediately silenced every time he tried to established himself more as a strong country instead of another colony. Even now, the world's schoolchildren barely knew his contributions to World War II, and it was just so frustrating!

When Canada pulled out of his reminiscence, the meeting's condition changed. With America able to diffuse the fight between France and England, he managed to grab a majority of the conference members' attention to reintroduce his global warming solution, the silly, childish "Globalman" monster that was supposed to turned the world away from the sun so that it wouldn't get overheated. As ridiculous and repetitive as America's idea was -because he obviously doesn't know that the earth's position was a delicate balance among the sun's orbit, and one tiny reposition could mean the rebirth of the ice age or the earth's imminent launch into the dark universe unknown- some nations were actually agreeing with him! Even Switzerland, after all those times he threatened to beat Japan with his Peace Prize for agreeing with America so quickly, nodded in agreement, most likely because he was just tired of hearing the same thing and just wanted to get this over with as soon as possible and get his sister out of there.

_Maple, I'm surrounded by idiots, _Canada thought as he rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly.

"I'm glad to see that everyone has agreed that this idea will be perfect for destroying that horrible global warming that is killing off our polar bears!" America cheered. "I promise you all that this idea will be awesome once we get our genetic engineers at work!"

"If I may butt in, America," Germany said as he handed Italy some sausages to end his annoying whining, "I have to say that that is the most ludicrous, immature, and downright stupid idea that you have ever said and repeated again and again and _again!_"

"Well, I don't see anyone else jumping at us with better ideas," America pointed out, crossing his arms and turning his nose up indignantly. "Since you're so eager to shoot down my idea, do you have any of your own you'd like to share? No? Didn't think so…"

"N-no, Germany's…Germany's right!" Canada spoke up softly. He stood up in what he hoped was confidence, clutching his bear tightly to his chest. It was difficult to ignore the curious stares of everyone in the room, but he managed to do so. "I mean, well, uh, you have t-to think about it, America. I-I mean, uh, 'genetically engineer a creature to shelter us from the sun'? America, that'll be more dangerous than the climate danger we are already in!"

"Oh, really? Well, Canadia, tell us your brilliant solutions, then!"

Canada opened his mouth. It was at that time that he was supposed to tell America that his name is _Canada, _not _"Canadia" _and share all of the ideas he stored in his leather-bound notebook for years, letting them figuratively collect dust, not just solutions to global warming, but to gender inequality, racial inequality, crimes, failing European economies, and wars, but he didn't. His throat took on that same clogged, constricted feeling that pushed down his voice and his audacious words. His eyes widen in building panic and his clammy, trembling hands held Kumajirou weakly. He could feel his knees shake under him like weak support beams ready to give at any moment. As much as Canada wanted to speak and get some praise and recognition, he wanted to disappear from everyone's view, or maybe go back in time to stop himself from jumping up from his seat like some big idiot.

"U-um, I just…" Canada trailed off. He took a glimpse at France, who smiled at him encouragingly. He remembered what France told him a week ago, the only thing France ever said to Canada that was actually helpful and kind:

"_Canada, when will you start speaking up for yourself, my friend? In every meeting, you do nothing but sit there and wait for someone to notice you, and it gets you nowhere. I know you, Canada, and I know that behind those beautiful, pink, pouty, silent lips are words of infinite wisdom and creativity! You should share that, or you'll just do the world an injustice and let opportunities pass you by!"_

Canada hugged Kumajirou tighter, squeezing a soft "Eeek!" from the bear. He mumbled to himself, "I-uh, I just don't…"

"Cool idea bro, so can I continue?" America asked. An eyebrow quirked up impatiently.

Canada nodded and sunk back into his seat, burying his face in his bear's fur to avoid the stares of the countries that most likely didn't even know who he was, despite meeting together for decades. He moaned into the fur quietly, trying not to cry like a baby in front of the others and be remembered for that nation who tears up so easily. He definitely didn't want to look at France, who was most likely shaking his head in disappointment. He just wanted to get out of there and go home…

* * *

Unlocking the door to his hotel suite, Canada lugged his exhausted body, his briefcase, and Kumajirou into it, tossing his briefcase to the couch and sitting Kumajirou onto the table. He went to close the door and lock it before returning to the living room. He stood in the middle of the room, looking at his surroundings before letting out a soft scream and breaking everything in sight. He let out a stream of quiet obscenities as he tossed vases, fine china, and fruits all over the room and moved to his bedroom. Taking out everything in the miniature refrigerator, he used the food and beverages to coat the walls with his anger.

Where was this energy when he stupidly spoke out of turn and said that he had something to share? Why didn't this robust attitude come for every single meeting where he was sick of fading into the background and having to tuck away his thoughts and voice time and time again? Canada walked back into the living room, looking for something else to destroy. His eyes landed on the briefcase, and when he saw it, the rest of his energy instantly drained from his body and mind. He lazily flopped onto the couch and pulled the notebook out of the briefcase, flipping through the aged pages and smiling sadly to himself, letting the restrained tears finally fall down his cheeks.

_Why am I never able to talk when I need to…?_

* * *

Wow, this may be the longest chapter I've ever written for a character so far. It's always the quiet ones that have the most to say...


	5. England- Paracosm

A part of England's chapter derives from the scene from France's chapter. If you've read this far into the compilation of illnesses, then you know what I'm talking about… Warning: description of rape. I don't recommend this chapter for those highly sensitive to this heinous crime. (Edit-A little note I just realized: listening to Evanescence's "Imaginary" while reading this chapter creates an awesome reading effect.)

Hetalia isn't mine.

* * *

Little England sat on the base of one the many beautiful forest's trees, hugging his bare, bloody knees and burying his face in them. He let the forest's empty silence swallow up his soft sobs as his whole body quivered from both his crying and the burning, scary pain that still burned near his vital regions. This was supposed to be a nice hike through the woods, where he could have the privacy he needed to practice his magic. It wasn't supposed to end up like this!

France wasn't supposed to find him alone in the woods, distracted with the list of chants in the spell book. He wasn't supposed to fight England to the ground, sneering like a madman as he held England down and ripped off the robes and undergarments from his small frame and tossed them aside so easily. France wasn't supposed to use his own regions to commit acts on England that made him cry out in sheer pain and beg for it to end as he feebly tried to fight France's heavy body off, while France just moaned in what sounded like unbridled pleasure. England wasn't supposed to be left on the forest floor, naked and bleeding and so stunned that his legs and his mind went numb. With the last bit of strength that was supposed to be used for practicing his magic, England crawled to the nearest tree.

"_I-I'm okay," _he tried to assure himself as he leaned his head back against the cool, rough bark. _"I-I'm fine…" _

Once he was sure that France was far away, he hugged his knees and stared into space- especially at the area where France had attacked him and the robes that were carelessly strewn across the damp grass- and tried to understand what had happened to him, tried to place a name and a reason to it. Because he was still such a young child, though, he wasn't able to know what he had just experienced and understand why he was bleeding so profusely, only able to describe it as humiliating, filthy, and agonizingly painful. It was then that he began to weep, sobbing away and wishing that he hadn't come into the forest to begin with. He felt so alone and frightened, twitching at every sound of broken twigs and rustling grass that suggested that France was coming back for him, that he just needed someone to-

"_Hey, are you okay, lad?"_

"_Yeah, little one, you seemed troubled. And where are your clothes?"_

England snapped his head up at the gentle, voices. His eyes enlarged when they landed on the voices' sources, and a small, sad smile tugged at his lips…

England sat in the large empty conference room, peacefully seated in his assigned seat even after Germany dismissed everyone for a meeting break. He was smiling in those few minutes more than anyone has ever seen him smile in his entire life, his face bright and eyes attentive. He was having a wonderful conversation with his friends, listening and giggling and giving short responses to their latest gossip, life stories, and jokes. England knew his friends for his entire life, and the occasional visit was a godsend that he was going to enjoy for as long as he can. So he basked gleefully in their presence.

For the outside observer, though, England is talking to himself.

For anyone not living in England's little world, they wouldn't be able to see the lime-green Flying Mint and the small pink fairy glide gracefully around England's head or perch on his shoulder, the scruffy-faced pirate stand next to him and attempt to sneak quick kisses before being playfully pushed away, or the majestic unicorn lay its head gently on England's lap to have its soft, white mane and long face stroked lovingly. England knew that people were watching, and he knew those same onlookers wouldn't be able to see his companions like he could, and he honestly didn't care. It didn't matter that the other nations didn't believe that they exist because that didn't change the fact that they were there and the best friends England ever had, the only friends that were willing to visit him and give their utmost loyalty to him without question. Although more frequent visits would have been nice…

Yes, England was willing to admit that even though Mint Bunny and Miss Fairy and the others were his best friends, they weren't exactly the perfect friends. They do make fun of him for his flaws like his imperfect cooking and really large eyebrows, which fed his hidden insecurities, and they do tend to disappear for _long_ periods of time, which he sometimes didn't notice because he was too busy winning wars and conquering countries. But they do come back whenever they could. The last time they had visited after decades of absence was when America initiated the Revolutionary War and betrayed him remorselessly, finding England inebriated and in the midst of testing out that "nations can't kill themselves" theory with a dueling sword. They had provided him with comfort, encouragement, and false, sugar-coated promises of a brighter tomorrow, and helped him and his civilians to recover, departing again once they saw their friend back on his feet. As flawed as they were, their kindness and love proved them to be England's most pristine companion anyone could ever ask for.

As Mr. Unicorn was about to bray his funny encounter with a grumpy magical mushroom, America barged into the room in his usual, boisterous manner.

"Yo, Britain, dude!" He shouted, his voice booming into the space in echoes. "The ol' Allies and Axis are getting together for a little after-conference dinner once this shit's over. You wanna join in?"

The grin on England's face faltered. "Er, but I thought you said that you were coming over to my place for dinner, like we do every month at this time to just reconnect?"

America laughed. "No way, dude! Don't you remember that one of the reasons why I wanted independence was so that I wouldn't hafta suffer diarrhea from your food again?"

"Um, yes, right, of course; how could I get forget?" England replied, his voice soft with heartache even with the grin returning.

Confused by the lack of anger-filled retorts, America shrugged and turned, walking back out into the hall. England continued to smile weakly at America's retreating back, only half-listening to his friends' sweet attempts at healing his reopened wound as his mind flooded with bittersweet memories of a sweet, compliant nation growing up too strong and too quickly before he broke away.

England was glad his friends came to visit him today…

* * *

Paracosm is when children create imaginary friends or an imaginary world, sometimes to help them make sense of reality and assert their own identity as they grow, or sometimes to find comfort after traumatic events.

It explains why after so long, England kept his friends, what with him having to see the faces of two of his sources of suffering almost daily.


	6. Russia- Delusional Disorder

Hetalia isn't mine. It belongs to Hidekaz Himuruya. Problem? Then go send a letter to Himuruya.

* * *

The sunlight spilled through the gape of the beige silk curtains of the quiet study, casting a soft radiance on the fountain pen that was scribbling neat, cursive notes on the cream-colored pages of a black leather-bound journal. Russia was bent over the journal, letting the dark red ink flow onto the paper in elegant stanzas. Writing poems was one of Russia's secret pastimes, one that he preferred to have unknown to the other nations not because he wrote those silly and overly optimistic poems full of sunshine and flowers and romance, but because he must keep his imminent glory a secret.

Russia writes war poems.

The many verses that Russia kept between those leather covers were of combats and crusades, of conquests and slavery. They described the smell of gunpowder emanating from rifles and grenades, the crimson stain of blood as his soldiers were slain mercilessly on the battlefield, and the sounds of anguished cries as his soldiers' loved ones mourned their heroes' deaths. There were details of parades riding on the snow-encased roads to celebrate his glorious victory of every battle as his people danced merrily and played instruments to their leader. Whether to pass the dull time during world conferences or quickly capture the sudden inspiration and use it, Russia would write line after line of wars almost daily. Over the years, his journal sealed in hundreds of poems.

Among the hundreds of poems Russia wrote was one that he cherished the most, the very first one he wrote as soon as he purchased the journal. This poem was one of a young boy, shivering in the desolate terrain as the snowfall masked the trail of footprints he made while trekking the small town. He looked to his left and right, observing the effects of poverty and hopelessness as his citizens struggled to survive after he was conquered by the Mongolian Empire. It was then that the flame of passion was lit within his heart; it was seeing his people grovel and moan that caused a shift in his psyche. These people were the people that he will bring prosperity and strength to, as he will get stronger and stronger and fight and _win. _The poem was of a little boy who promised his people and himself that the world will fall to his feet as he dominate each and every nation he can find. He was able to conquer Lithuania, Estonia, and Latvia in such a little amount of time; that little boy was growng up unstoppable!

Something on the desk caught Russia's eye as he reached for the shot-glass of vodka. It was a framed photo of the Allies together, one of the many copies that America mailed to them. He picked it up and looked at it with a gentle smile across his face. Everyone was beaming in the photo, even England, who had a penchant for scowling always (except for when he's all alone, which Russia just couldn't wrap his head around). America's smile was the brightest of them all, a big smile that matched his vivacious, optimistic, and eager mentality, as if he actually believed that _he _would reign te world as the biggest superpower or muh longer. It was amusing to see them all like this, smiling as if death and destruction weren't going to cloud their futures. They go about their day, bickering and teasing and laughing, stupidly unaware of the dark powers held within Russia's being that can destroy them with a simple flick of the wrist-

Russia felt his pen scratch against the wooden finish of his desk. He looked down at his journal and noticed that he had absentmindedly scribbled down battle plans and a list of the other nations' weaknesses to the point that it filled out the rst of the page, his handwriting shifting from graceful loops to harried chicken scratch. He chuckled to himself, smiling at the little idiosyncrasy that happens when he wasn't preventing his mind from wandering to those dark areas. He clutched the little shot-glass of vodka between his finger and thumb and leaned back in his chair, tipping the clear liquor into his mouth and savoring the warm, starchy sting. He twirled the sleek fountain pen in his other hand and watched the sunlight bounce off of its reflective material.

"They will all become one with me," Russia predicted with a smik.

* * *

According to WebMD, Delusional Disorder is when a person believes that an event that hasn't happened, but has a possibility of happening, is happening or will come true. Whenever Russia speaks about how he will conquer everyone, this disorder immediately spoke to me (although this chapter seem more like horror-movie Sociopathy than Delusional Disorder.)


	7. Greece-Narcolepsy

Hetalia isn't mine? Eh, no biggie... *cries in a corner*

* * *

They think he is lazy. They think he is inattentive. They think that he is uninterested and is willing to show his lack of interest even if it offends the other person. Some people would go far as to think that he is drunk all of the time and that he's constantly fighting to not pass out without success, or that the night before, he was partying a lot and having quick flings and it was all catching up to him in the morning after. But they were all wrong.

Greece wasn't oblivious to the world's view of him. As much as his eyelids involuntarily shut close, it didn't stop him from seeing the snide stares. As loud as his nasally snore were, they didn't drown out the disapproving comments the other nations made about his annoying sleeping habits and his apparent slothfulness. None of the other nations understood how wrong they are about Greece and his weird, random, out-of-the-blue sleep that shuts down his mind. They obviously don't notice that before his head bobs down and his eyelids cover his eyes, Greece is very alert and attentive and very active-minded (though it doesn't really show in his peaceful, quiet, carefree demeanor). Worse of it all, no matter how much irritation or concern they'd feel for Greece (if they were to let go some of their frustration to feel concern for him at all) it would never match the loathing and burdensome impatience he felt towards himself.

Greece worked his hardest to disprove his image as the lazy passive-aggressive bum who would choose naps over responsibility, but it wasn't getting easier with his condition. No one seemed to try as hard as Greece to prove that he is very diligent and willing to work tirelessly, yet no matter how hard he tries, his condition always get in the way; no one was more willing to risk a heart attack by ingesting one type of stimulant after another (sometimes multiple, untested stimulants) for the sake of national duty, but he still manages to fall short of his ambition and not get his work done. It was because of this condition that he missed a lot of vital information and fell behind on his work. Messy paperwork, missing reports, miscalculated statistics, and now a "very loose" tax law and a failing economy, all because his eyes fell shut on their own accord.

Even worse, his failing economy not only provided more "proof" for the others to think that their opinions were true (because only diligent nations wouldn't let their economy decline), but it made him fall ill, and that new illness weakened him and made staying up when needed all the more difficult. He couldn't focus, he couldn't drive on his own, he couldn't cook his own meals lest he was willing to die in a burning condominium. It even ruined his social life; date after date, women would get up and leave in a pissed huff thinking that Greece found them so boring or unimportant that he would just rudely fall asleep right there in his seat, and no amount of sweet-talking and apologizing- thankfully unaffected by his sleeping disorder- made up for it. It just seemed that there was no way of getting out of this bad luck, and yet, he still foolishly tries to fight it.

He was fighting it today, actually. After downing around six Grande-sized latte with extra sugar and half a bottle of B-vitamin capsules during the airplane trip, Greece felt sure that this time he _will _stay up and get through this meeting with eyes wide open and mind totally sharp. Today was going pretty well, albeit the caffeine was making his body more jittery than he wished, which made focusing on the still, dull meeting when his body wanted to move wildly somewhat challenging. At least he was able to listen to the lecture and take the needed notes. He was quickly scratching notes in his notebook, filling in the blue lines with political currents, education statistics, and environment conditions.

The next minute, Greece then found his head nestled comfortably on a soft, suit pants lap. When his eyes fluttered open, Greece turned his head slightly to look up into the face of the man whose lap he occupied. He found that it was Japan, whose face froze with an uncomfortable and embarrassed expression as he stared unblinking head.

"Damn, it happened again, didn't it?" Greece whispered to Japan.

"Hai," Japan nodded stiffly. He shifted in his seat.

"Damn," Greece hissed again. He slowly rose off of Japan's thighs and rubbed his eyes. Even with his mind still foggy from just getting out of another random sleep, Greece could distinctively hear the hushed comments already filling the silence.

"Ugh, he's so lazy…"

"Why doesn't he just stay home if he didn't feel like focusing in the meeting?"

"Interrupting the lecture with his snores again, eh? Heh heh, good ol' Greece…"

"Geez, I wonder how much he had to drink last night before he brought his damn hangover here?"

"Wait, I think he was drinking this morning. I saw him throwing away a paper cup before coming into the conference room…"

Greece looked down at his notebook and the long, black line that dragged downward from where he left off on his notes. His face burned with shame.

They were calling him lazy, irresponsible, drunk, and inattentive. They were blaming him for something he had no control over.

* * *

I hope this one was okay. I kinda feel that it was one of the worse I've written, but who's to say that I didn't try, eh? :D

Narcolepsy: A disorder characterized by sudden unexplained "sleep attacks" during the day.


	8. Romano- Tourette's Syndrome

Hiya! It's been a while since I updated this, hasn't it? Sorry, my updating skills are horrible, so horrible that my last update was last year. ^_^" ... *slinks away in shame*

Me no own Hetaliano! ;D

* * *

If one asks Romano what he hates the most, that person might expect an array of answers just by taking a glance at Romano's daily life. He hates that damn potato eater, he hates that dumbass Spaniard's naïve optimism in even the most dire situations, he hates those smelly turtles that can't seem to die or go away, he hates that perverted French whore and his constant advances, and he hates how he's always pushed to the fucking shadows while his younger, more cheery brother steals the limelight. All of those things are what Romano hates, but none of them are what he hated the most. In fact, the one thing that Romano hates the most would shock almost everyone that knows him because it seemed that his life and daily routine depended on it.

Romano hates swearing.

Romano hates everything about the filthy vocabulary he acquired over the centuries, from the way it slithered into his everyday conversation to the way it embarrassed him whenever he was discussing serious topics with important dignitaries like his boss or the other nations' bosses, to the way it made strangers misjudge him before they even get to know him; he couldn't even go to the grocery store without being forcibly removed for public misconduct towards other customers. Romano mentally kicks himself every time he swears; it absolutely frustrated him to the point of depression how he could so easily let his tongue slip like that.

No, saying that isn't correct. Saying that he "let" the curses spout from his lips would lessen the severity of this problem. It contradicted the point of all those speech therapy sessions he voluntarily (and begrudgingly) took to control the Tourette's Syndrome that's eating away at his. It made light of the consequences his swearing problem had brought upon him, like the staining of his image and the lost opportunities to socialize; not once was he able to strike up a conversation with a nice _stranger_ or establish his identity as the southern half of Italy without suddenly yelling like an angry sailor and scaring people away. Allowing himself to say that he "let" the outbursts come would confirm what those unknowing jerks say: that all of that was happening by will and that it's his fault that he wasn't able to make friends.

Romano wanted to laugh so much at that failed attempt at logic. No, he doesn't swear at random because he felt "cool"; no, he doesn't like swearing because it made him feel and look like a tough Mafia boss who can't be messed; no, he doesn't swear to freak people out and get their attention, and no, Tourette's Syndrome isn't a ridiculous excuse for people who don't know how or want to use their "filters." Who in their right mind would want to swear constantly and suffer the consequences that follows? Who would want to be overlooked for amazing opportunities like going to oversea business travels because the outbursts would turn away international travelers? Who in their right mind would want to beaten up by street thugs for involuntarily offending them (proving the whole "being like a Mafia boss" theory wrong)? Who would be insane enough to want to be isolated by strangers who were too afraid or too offended to give a second or third chance and learn about who the person truly is? Why would anyone want to be overshadowed by their younger brother because he's so damn jovial and easy to get along with and he doesn't scare people with his swearing and doesn't threaten to hurt them or rape them, even though his older brother wouldn't even _dream _of doing the same things.

Tourette's Syndrome has ruined Romano's life and still is, taking whatever bits of happiness and peace he scavenged like a vulture picking at animal cadavers. Worse of it all, no one seemed to bother to learn; if only they stopped judging Romano so damn quickly and let him explain his disorder, they could know who he truly is. If only they were willing to learn and try to understand...

* * *

Romano barged through the front doors of his home, his face set in a tired glare. Shrugging jerkily out of his jacket and tossing it onto the sofa, Romano stormed through the living room and headed straight for the kitchen, the aroma of sweet tomato simmering on the stovetop alerting the nation to his older brother Spain's presence. He walked to the kitchen's island-groaning inwardly at the sight of his brother's back as Spain busied himself at the stove- pulled out a stool, and plopped on it. He crossed his arms on the island's cool-tiled top and buried his face in the gape, sighing in both stress and relief.

"So, I take it this week's therapy session was just as stressful and dull as last week?" Spain questioned cheekily as he stirred the soup and added spices to it. He started to hum a pleasant tune to himself.

_Please, God, I don't want to deal with this idiot's cheerful mood right now... _Romano prayed he grumbled "_fucking hell_" to the island's top.

Spain turned around and smiled at him. "Was that you talking or the tic?" He chuckled. Romano snapped his head up as he glared at Spain, who put his palms up and shook his head. "Okay, okay, that was a bit offensive; I shouldn't have joked about something this serious; I'm sorry..."

Romano let his head fall back into his arms. Just when he felt his mind drift off into unconsciousness, to erase that day's burdensome load of silent glares, judgmental whispers, and even a couple of insults from a woman who was actually brave enough to rebuke Romano for a sin he couldn't stop from happening, Spain's voice broke through the muddied darkness and pulled Romano back out.

"So, if today wasn't too much of a draining experience for you, then do you still want to go?"

"W-what?" Romano asked groggily as he lifted his head from his arms again.

"Go to that farm to pick apples while their fresh and free, remember?" Spain said. He tilted his head and pouted. "Don't tell me you forgot that you promised to come apple-picking with me, hermano menor?"

Romano sighed tiredly. "Agh, Spain, I really-" He then felt his jaw clench, his eye twitch, and his shoulders tense, the things he were able to recognize as signs of a tic attack. In that split second that he detected the signs, Romano clamped his hands over his mouth and let the stream of obscenities pour out of his mouth, thankfully muffled by his palms and only lasting thirty seconds. When the tic was over, Romano cleared his throat and willed the redness from his cheeks to disappear. "S-Spain, I really don't feel like...going today..."

"But Roma! You promised!" Spain whined. "Why?"

Romano felt his eyebrows burrowed at the nation's whiny tone. "Because people will- _fucking rape your ugly face!_" Romano winced and banged his fist on the kitchen island in sheer frustration.

Spain's eyes widened as he smiled in amusement. "Heh heh, wow, they're only apples...I didn't know people will get so angry over picked apples."

"Dammit, Spain, this is not _fucking_ funny! _FUCK!_" Romano roared at the top of his lungs before pushing away from the kitchen island and stomping off.

"Ah, wait! Romano, come on!" Spain sprint around the kitchen island and grabbed Romano's wrist, turning him around so he could look into Romano's eyes. "Okay, Romano, I'm sorry. I was just trying to make you feel better with my awesome comedic skills and I'm obviously failing. So tell me: why don't you want to go?"

"Because," Romano began, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists, "b-because people will-"

"Now stop right there, Roma." Spain put his hand up. "If you're going to go on the whole 'people will judge me' bit, then let me tell you right now that is the most ridiculous excuse you've ever pulled out of your ass. You shouldn't let others bring you down so much that you're afraid to go out in public and enjoy yourself."

"Says the man who's not labeled as psychotic or suffering from a mental disease," Romano grumbled as he averted his glare.

"That's right, hermano, I'm not able to understand what you're going through because I'm not suffering it, so that's why I'm telling you this as a big brother who's looking out for you and your best interest, and not as a man with Tourette's Syndrome."

Romano's eyes widened. Although Spain was always acting like his protective and doting big brother, this time Romano felt like Spain was actually serious.

"Besides," Spain added as he threw an arm over Romano's shoulders, "I can already tell that your condition is improving fantastically!"

"...Davvero?"

"Si! Before the sessions, you were swearing and giving off threats-"

"_Shitty sons of bitches!_"

"...Like a crazed murderer for, like, every two minutes, and you'd punch a wall or flap your arms around like a cute frantic birdy. But now, the time length between each swear has stretched, and your arm-flapping-thingy stopped. I knew that Tourette's Syndrome would eventually improve in adulthood, but to see it ending in a quick pace is fascinating!"

Romano lifted a questioning eyebrow. "How do you know that Tourette's gets better in adults?"

Spain beamed sheepishly. "Eh, I looked up the disorder a couple of times during my off days; I have to learn how to help you, and what better way than to know what we're tackling here, right?" Spain turned away to go back to the stove. He stirred the soup and gave it a taste. "Mmm, Roma, the soup's ready. Grab a bowl so we can eat and go- Romano? Are you okay?"

Romano stood on the other side of the kitchen island, body tensed and fists shaking at his sides. His face was scrunched up, and to Spain it looked like he was trying to avoid another tic attack.

_Spain tried to learn about Tourette's Syndrome...for me? _Romano thought as he tried to avoid tearing up in joy. _That stupid, kind-hearted bastard..._

* * *

Wow, this chapter actually ended up on a good note! :O I'd like to see how often that will happen. So, I guess I'd like to say that I really haven't done people with Tourette's Syndrome any justice considering the fact that most of Romano's tics (a lot) were pretty much stereotypical. My apologies.

Well, now that I have spent my precious sleeping hours on this chapter, I guess I can drift off into dreamland knowing that I finally pulled an update out of my butt. Zzzzz...


	9. Denmark- Alcoholism

The day that Hetalia becomes mine is the day that Belarus stops chasing Russia. That ain't happenin', folks.

* * *

Cigarette buds crushed in ashtrays or on the floor. Used beer mugs and wineglasses lined on the bar. Weak light bulbs that cast flickering illumination to give the room a dim and eery appearance. The strong smell of burnt nicotine, collective human musk, and fresh beer lingered in the remaining bits of breathable air.

There were many things that Sweden hated about coming to the bar. He hated how the air was more toxic and damaging to the human lung than the air in Chernobyl, how the buzz of chatter seemed to be about husbands unhappy with their wives and jobs, wives unhappy with their husbands and mothers-in-law, bouts of slurred arguments and occasional fistfights over the silliest disagreement, and the embarrassment they all displayed. As horrible as all of these are, they don't come close to what Sweden hated about the bar.

The thing that Sweden hated the most about the bar was the reason why he was reluctant- yet _again- _to go to it to make his daily rounds of picking up his older brother whom was more likely than not (completely, undeniably) drunk out of his wit.

There were parts in Sweden that screamed at him to just leave his brother in the bar and make him find his own way home, to make him see that his little "relaxing lifestyle" is just plain stupid, but he couldn't do that; he couldn't leave his brother to fend for himself when his mind is so mentally weakened by alcohol that even a little kid could hurt him without much effort (Sweden laughed inwardly at that memory). Sweden couldn't think how much guilt he would feel if his brother ended up in serious danger or dead (even if he were more likely to start the trouble than to stumble into it) just because he was sick of being the designated driver for a drinking party he wasn't even invited to. So this sentiment is what brought Sweden to the entrance of the bar, The Kings Well (the apostrophe that was after "Kings" fell off a long time ago and hasn't been replaced since), staring at the intricate carvings of crowns and olive branches on the black lacquered double doors of the bar. Taking in as much fresh air as possible, Sweden pushed through the double doors and stepped inside.

The usual bar scene greeted him: people chattering and arguing, cigarette smoke floating to the ceiling while cigarette ash coated the hardwood floor, clinking of glasses as either the bartender collected them or patrons toasted to something ridiculous, and the relative darkness from the poor lighting. It was almost hard to find his charge among the large group of people, but when his ears picked up a drunk round of familiar lyrics, and his eyes followed the sound to a nest of gravity-defying hair, his search was short-lived. He scrolled casually across the wide expanse of hardwood floor to the spot where Denmark was, giving the bartender a greeting nod as he passed.

"_-lands to be conquered to add jewels to thy crown! Take on the bitter enemies, go on, take 'em down! Take on the triumph as you win yet one more duel! God hath surely blessed you to rule! Oh, great King, how high thou has risen! Oh, great Emperor, how thou shine! Oh, good Lord, bless his many generations! For surely, his rulership is divine!"_

Sweden stood behind Denmark with crossed arms, waiting for his older brother to quit his drinking song long enough to notice his presence. Of course, Denmark never did detect Sweden's presence, even in sobriety, but it was a fun way to pass the time. After Denmark and his random drinking buddies chugged down half their mugs of beer, Sweden slapped the back of his head.

"Agh! Wh- Oh, heeeey, Sve!" Denmark slurred as he rubbed the injured spot. "Whatcha doin' here, bro?"

Sweden rolled his eyes. "I'm here to pick you up..._again._"

"Aw, sherioushly, Berry?" Denmark whined. "I dun wanna go juss yet; we were juss geddin' to the good pard of the song!" He raised an arm to signal to his friends to sing again. "_Oh, dear King, there are lands to be-"_

"Denmark, it's time to go," Sweden said firmly. "It is getting colder and colder outside and I want to go home." He began to pull at Denmark's arm, which Denmark yanked away quickly.

"Sweden, c'mon, dun be that stuck-up buzzkill, dude!" He held up his mug of beer to Sweden's nose. "Take a drink!"

"No."

"Take a drink, Sve~!"

"Denmark, no."

"Take a driiiiiiiiiiiink!"

"Denmark, do not push me."

"Take a driiiii-"

"No!" Sweden snatched the mug away and slammed it onto the table, spilling some of the beer out onto the table's surface and nearly breaking the glass itself. Many of the drinkers stopped drinking to look at him, warily watching out for a possible fight. He was aware of their eyes, and he took a deep, calming breath. "Denmark, we are going home. I'm not waiting any longer.' With that, he grabbed the crook of Denmark's arm and pulled him out of his seat, leading the drunkard towards the door.

"Why do I hafta go, Sweden?" Denmark asked in his annoying, whiny tone. He pouted as if the back of Sweden's head could see his protruding bottom lip.

"Because you're drunk, it's late, I don't feel like picking you up past twelve, and I can't let you get home by yourself."

Denmark scoffed and rolled his eyes, again unaware that Sweden could see him. "I am perfectly fine and capable of going home by myself, dude."

"Denmark, the last time you attempted to go home alone, you were beaten up by an eight-year-old." Sweden laughed inwardly at the memory again.

"That was juss one time, you douche!" Denmark tried to yank his arm away, causing Sweden to tighten his grip rather painfully. "A-and besides, I can juss walk home with my buddies ova there!" He looked back.

"Denmark, those are just strangers. They are likely to jump you and rob you. Or worse. So, no."

Well, geeeeeez, I never knew you cared so much about me, Sweden." Denmark muttered.

"Of course, you idiot. You're my brother."

"...That didn't stop you from leaving."

Sweden stopped in his tracks just as he reached the door, hand up to push it open and lead them out. He dropped his hand and his gaze and sighed. _Not this, again..._ He turned to his brother, whom was looking away to avoid Sweden's eyes. "Denmark, don't bring this up, please..."

"Why can't I bring it up, huh?" Denmark asked as his eyes snapped up to meet Sweden's. "I mean, if I can't have a little bit o' fun with a bunch of cool guys or go down a little trip down our precious memory lane, then what can I do? Are ya gonna stop me from sleeping under a rock next? Stop me from beating 'nother tree down in anger? What's next, bro?"

"Denmark, you're blowing this out of proportion-"

"Like the same way you blew our agreement- and our _brotherhood- _ outta yer ass?!"

"What the hell did you expect, Denmark?!" Sweden hissed loudly. He didn't want to go into this mess again, and he didn't want them to attract the fearful eyes of the other patrons again, but Denmark just pushes him so much, and in so little time, too. "What do you expect me to do while you're letting corruption and greed plague you so much? I mean, you were so damn power-hungry that you were willing to destroy everything and everyone to get land after land after land. You were ruining my economy and you failed to noticed how ill you were making me because of it! I was practically going to _die _just so that you'd make a name for your damn self, and all you ever cared about as the size of your king's crown!"

Sweden paused, glaring down at Denmark who gaped at him. "...In all honesty, I don't even know why I bother to do even the smallest shit for you, but...but I do, so come on and stop fighting like a little kid." He tugged at Denmark's arm, but he wouldn't budge. "Denmark..." He said in a calm, warning tone.

"Leave me alone."

"Denmark, stop doing this-"

"I wanna stay here."

He tugged at the arm again. "Denmark, we're leaving _now-_"

"I ain't leavin'!"

"Oh, so what the fuck are you going to do, then? You're going to just drown yourself in beer mug after mug until you're brain dead?"

Denmark chuckled humorlessly. "...It's the only thing I'm good at, right?"

"Denmark, please..." Sweden pleaded tiredly.

"Please what, Sve? Please dun act like this? Please dun throw a friggin' self-hating tantrum about how I'm a horrible king who let power get to his head? Please dun _bitch_ about how I was such a horrible king that I would lead my men into battle after ugly battle to shut up those that were only trying to stop my harsh tyranny?

"Please dun start whining about how I was even worse as a brother who only saw his flesh and blood as a commodity for more land and servitude and didn't give a damn about how sick I was makin' him? Please dun cry about how I'm such a fucking moron who can't even face trouble and enemies without whinin' to my boss or downing a pint or two?" Denmark chuckled darkly. "Please _what, _my precious little bro?"

Sweden stared at him, taken aback. He knew that Denmark was holding some sort of resentment and some regret, but never did he hear it like this. And he would've never thought- in the way Denmark would blame the end of the Kalmar Union on Sweden and bully him relentlessly on a whim- that the resentment was actually self-loathe and the regrets were about not caring for his family.

Seeing the shock on Sweden's face, Denmark wrenched his arm free. "Juss go home, Sve; I wanna hang out here for a while longer. I'm gonna be fine." He crossed his arms defiantly, as if challenging Sweden to stop him.

Sweden sighed and pushed up his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. "...Fine," he agreed hesitantly. "Go on and just drink your problems away."

And he did; Denmark gave Sweden a small smirk before turning to the direction of his table, wearing a cheerful smile and pumping a fist in the air. His "friends" at the table started to cheer at Denmark's return as if the whole argument that rose loudly between the brothers didn't happen or made them uncomfortable. Sweden sighed and leaned against a wall next to the entrance. He watched as Denmark settled back into his seat and picked up his beer to continue their drinking song. This is what he hated most about bars: the melancholic atmosphere that seemed to lure those filled with hopelessness and fear with false promises of comfort when really, it just pulls them into a deep, dark hole that only gets deeper the longer they are unwilling to face their issues until they can no longer get out.

_Please don't do that to yourself, _Sweden pleaded silently. He involuntarily listened as his brother's drinking group picked up where they left off on the drinking song.

"_My King, do you know they plan to reclaim their lands? Thy enemies arrive to clasp the chains on thy hands! Here you sit, pride gone, as they plunder thy kingdom! You weep, yes weep, as they revive the tragic scene Sodom! Oh, Servant, how low thou have fallen! Oh, Outcast, how harshly they shame thy name! Dear me, thou lost God's favor. Thy crown was taken in this game._"

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I'm sorry for the way I wrote this chapter; it wasn't supposed to be this long (in fact, it was supposed to be a short bar scene) and it feels like it was rushed and inconsistent. Oh, well, I'm too tired to go back and change it (sacrificing sleep for a fanfic, that's not healthy.) Anyway, I was referencing to the Kalmar Union with the best of my abilities, but I didn't understand it all too well, so I just worked with whatever I could understand of it. I hope this was a little good. :/


	10. Germany- OCD and PTSD

Oh, dude, I can't believe this fic had collected so much dust! I'm sorry lovely readers who have faved and followed this compilation, and I'm sorry story for neglecting ya! *pats story* If you were a pet, you'd be long dead right now. I make a horrible pet owner. ;n;

I don't own Hetalia.

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It was another spring afternoon. The bright blue sky promised a clear, beautiful morning for the quiet Beilschmidt household. With Prussia locking himself in the basement, Italy cancelling his usual daily visit, and Japan not answering phone calls at all, all of those added up can only mean one thing.

It's spring cleaning time.

On an almost monthly basis, Germany would set aside a day or two for his spring cleaning sessions, cancelling any and all appointments and visits- no matter how necessary they are- to free up his schedule. This meant that he and his house was isolated, with his older brother barricading himself in a dark, dank room, Italy not coming over to beg for pasta and soccer, Romano not invading his land to curse out the German for "stealing his brother," and Spain, France, Denmark, and America not coming to visit Prussia to unite the Awesome and Bad Touch trios in some form of party. All because they were afraid of Germany's "crazy, unnatural, insane perfectionist tirade" (as quoted by America himself).

Germany supposed it was for the best; sure, it would be nice if he had his friends over to lend extra hands and lighten the workload instead of just coming for their own convenience- _Especially that Dummkopf who I've been letting live here rent-free while he makes most of the messes, _Germany brooded- but America did have a point. With all of that military training he had over the decades, no one really could match Germany's penchant for order. Only he was able to know which item should be placed and how, which cleaning agent was best for a specific dirt stain, and what scrubbing or wiping method should be used on the tough stains; because of his decades of military training, Germany developed an eye for spotting the smallest imperfection, a blemish on his orderly lifestyle. If no one else was able to keep up with his way of cleaning, then it would be best for Germany to do it all by himself, seeing as how the others would simply slow him down or make the mess worse, especially Prussia.

Coming from the bathroom after a ruthless cleaning and disinfecting, Germany hefted a bucket of freshly ran cleaning water and another bucket of cleaning products into his long, empty hallway before setting them down on the marble floor and kneeling in-between them. He took out his rubber gloves from the cleaning product bucket and slipped them on his hands with a rubbery snap; he then took out the large sponge, dipping it into the soapy cleaning water and rubbing it against the hard flooring. He sighed in content at the splashing sounds of the water hitting the floor; another great thing about cleaning alone is the absolute peace of it all. With no America, Italy, or Prussia to run their mouths in a constant stream of random, unimportant thoughts, Germany had the quiet he needs to concentrate on his work and to collect his thoughts uninterrupted.

He stared down at the floor he was cleaning, his eyes tracing the blue-black lines running through the sky blue mass. _Ja, this is nice. _He started crawling on the floor, scrubbing and towing the bucket along as he went until he reached another section of flooring that needed his attention. As he resettled, he let his mind wander to pleasant thoughts, about the time that his country and citizens were so prosperous and strong before the horrid recession left them all hungry, desperate, and sick, a recession that led to...

_"Demoralize the enemy from within by surprise, terror, sabotage, assassination! We as the greatest race on the Almighty's green earth must inherit what is rightfully ours! Germany will either be a world superpower or not at all!"_

The rowdy crowd standing below his balcony shot their right hands up, applauding with powerful resonance,_ "Heil -!"_

Germany gasped as he shot up from his daydream. _W-what was...? _He looked down at his floor and the water that was escaping the sponge. _Why did _that _of all things have to come up? _He felt a sort of sickness overcome him as he tried to push that memory to the back of his mind and continue scrubbing. When pushing that memory away to the darkest corner of his psyche so it can finally die didn't work, Germany tried the next best thing: reasoning.

"I don't know why I just thought that," Germany muttered to himself as he worked at a spot that seemed to not disappear no matter how hard he rubbed at it. "I mean, I didn't share that man's sentiments at all! I even tried to convince him to stop the entire thing and live with the Jews and Gypsies in peace. Maybe it's nerves. Yeah, that's it, nerves." Satisfied with the conclusion, Germany nodded and continued his work. "Come on, you stupid stain! Off, already!" He rubbed the sponge on the floor feverishly, creating bubbles that glistened in a rainbow spectrum in the sunlight like diamonds, or shattered glass...

Carefully moving above the large piece of glass still jutting from the windowpane, Germany swung a leg into the gape and swung the other leg in, climbing into the dark front room of a hat store. He squinted into the darkness and called softly, _"Hullo? Is anyone in here?" _He stood quietly and listened. He wasn't sure, but he thought he could make out...sobbing? He crept through the room, his heavy combat boots crunching on top of smaller shards of glass. When he stepped on the shards, the soft sobbing stopped, but Germany no longer needed the sobs to find the source.

Hiding in the darkest depths of the tiny hat store was a little girl, her shoulders and back quivering from contained weeping. Germany smiled gently to himself as he knelt down behind the girl and pat her head. _"Little one, it's okay; I'm here to help you."_

When she heard the soothing tone within the deep bellow, the little girl slowly looked over her shoulder at the man, the large, looming shadow that hovered above her. She shook harder.

Germany's eyes widened in surprise. _Why on earth is she still afraid? Didn't I just tell her that-? _He looked down at himself to see what was wrong and immediately spotted everything: the uniform, the revolver holstered beside his chest, the red band with the swastika in the center.

Mentally slapping himself, Germany hurriedly said, _"No, no, little one, you don't understand! I'm not one of them anymore! I'm going to help you, see?" _He ripped off the red band around his arm and yanked his uniform top off. He cast away his gun with the band and smiled down at the girl. _"See?"_

The little girl turned around in her spot, and Germany was able to see the fresh blood on her ripped sundress. _"Y-you're not going to...h-hurt me?" _The little girl stammered.

Germany wrapped the uniform top around the small girl as a blanket. _"No, I won't. I'm Ludwig Beilschmidt, what's your name?"_

_"I-I'm-"_

_"Hey! Ludwig found another one!" _A heavily German-accented voice called out from the window. Ludwig looked over his shoulder just in time to see the store's entrance kicked in. Military-clad men rushed into the store, surrounding the two people in the room, causing the little girl to whimper. In the moonlight, Ludwig could see that they were all smiling down sadistically. _"Well, well, well, General Ludwig, looks like you were hiding out a kill from us," _the leader of the group said. _"Trying to keep the fun all to yourself? Heh, selfish bastard. But nice find, either way."_

_"W-what are you doing here?!"_ Germany stammered. He lifted his arms up to hide the girl.

_"What do you think? We're going to complete the pogrom we were told to do." _The man noticed Germany's protective state and shook his head in disapproval. _"Oh, Ludwig, no..." _He sighed and pointed, barking, _"Move this man!"_

_"What?! NO!" _Germany screamed as he kicked, punched, and wriggled wildly against the soldiers' grip. He was easily tossed to the back, and as he moved to get back to the child, the soldiers held him down, forcing him to watch in horror as the leader cocked his pistol.

The man sniggered and gave Ludwig a passing glance of contempt. _"Wow, Ludwig, I knew you were a dog person, but _this-" he slowly brought the barrel of his pistol to the little girl's forehead- _"this is taking mutt-loving a little too far."_

_"NO!" _Germany screamed, his protest drowned in the loud bang as the man's finger pulled the trigger back. Blood splattered from somewhere that Germany can't see from the blackness of his mind, and when his body fell limp from the shock, he felt his hands brush against something fleshy. When he looked down he saw bodies, lifeless bodies covered with fresh blood, blood that was spreading everywhere too quickly. Mind rushing with too many thoughts, Germany quickly wiped at the blood to get it under control and stop it from spreading. This shouldn't be happening; this shouldn't have happened at all; he should have stopped it and that soldier and this pogrom and the entire movement because _he _is the country, he was his own land, he should've stopped his people from following Nazism and try to create peace...

"-der! Bruder! What the hell?!"

Germany came back to the present, meeting the ruby eyes of his older brother, Prussia. Prussia was kneeling in front of Germany, gripping Germany's shoulders and shaking him to snap him out of his weird state. Germany looked around him at the hallway brightly lit by the sunlight, not a storeroom darkened by night hours and blood. He looked around for the soldiers and the bodies and the little girl. None of them were present. "They're not here..."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Germany looked around with wild eyes. "The soldiers. The little girl- what's her name? Where are they?"

Prussia furrowed his eyebrows in concern and confusion. "I have no clue what you're talking about, but I'm sure you're losing it." He sighed. "I come up here to get another case of beer and find you scrubbing away at this spot repeatedly and crying like an unawesome baby!"

"What?" Germany then felt the tears race down his cheeks and drip from his chin. The tears fell onto his glove and onto the spot where the blood should've been. "The blood..."

"What blood? What are you talking about?"

Germany sat still in his spot, staring down at his hands with his fingers tensely digging into the sponge. He then flung forward into Prussia, burying his face into Prussia's chest and wrapping his arms tightly around Prussia's waist. "I-I didn't want to, Prussia!"

Shocked by the sudden move, Prussia stared down at the blonde locks of hair. "What...?"

"I didn't want to do that, Prussia! I didn't want to! I had no choice! I was getting sick by the economy and I was desperate and I didn't know better and I couldn't save _her! _I couldn't even get her damn name before they got to her! Why didn't I stop it? Why couldn't I save her? They didn't need to kill her, she was just a child! I didn't care about being powerful, he didn't need to do all of that! They were all innocent! They were all _human beings!_"

Prussia gaped at the breakdown happening in front of him, unable to comprehend the jumble of nonsense flying from Germany, but he started to piece it all together, all of Germany's regrets and misery. Quickly, he pulled Germany closer to him and tightened his arms around him, shushing him and reassuring him over and over that he knows that it wasn't it fault, that it was all out of his control and there wasn't anything he could do.

When Germany finally calmed down, he gently pushed Prussia away and gathered his cleaning items. He walked off.

"H-hey! What's going on?" Prussia said, confused by the sudden change of moods and insulted by Germany's gesture.

"I'm going to clean the kitchen," Germany said over his shoulder.

"You're going to clean up after whatever the hell that panic attack was? And the kitchen's already clean!"

"I can't be too sure that it's clean," Germany said softly. "Besides, this is just...this is just throwing off my whole cleaning routine. Now, if you'll please..." With the stiff stoicism of a soldier, Germany walked away to the direction of the kitchen to start over.

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This had to be the toughest and saddest chapter I wrote, because it required me to look up stuff I didn't want to read on (like Hitler's actual quotes) and write something that I'm sure I'll have nightmares and crying fits over. ;n;

Anyway, I intended to have Germany display symptoms of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (because I like giving characters only one illness), but when I learned that OCD is a means to both calm anxiety and gain control of a situation, somehow Post Traumatic Stress Disorder melded into the writing and fit itself perfectly into Germany's chapter. It's pretty cool, though.


End file.
